The Way of Heroes
by Frodo Silverlune
Summary: Complete. Something is wrong with Frodo, something that goes beyond the realm of physical control, for how can one prevent a destiny, or heal the scars of fate?


**The Way of Heroes**

_by FrodoBaggins87_

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own Lord of the Rings or any characters, settings, etc. pertaining thereto.

PG for deep insight and contemplations....basically it's too deep-thinking for G, but no violence, profanity, slash, etc.

**_The Way of Heroes_**

* * *

"No!" Silence thundered through the camp, and stricken faces turned questioningly in the direction of the unusually harsh statement.

"I...am...quite...well, Sam." Every word was unmistakably pronounced.

"No you're not, Mr. Frodo, we've all been watching you this time, all eight of us. Haven't we?" Sam glanced confidently at the other members of the fellowship, each frozen in a particular position to observe the exchange of Baggins stubbornness against Sam's steel conviction.

Gandalf nearly blended into the gray twilight about him as he sat and smoked his pipe, stretching from the long day's march. He merely twitched a bushy eyebrow at the hobbit's inquiry, and the Ringbearer's cousins sighed, knowing the usual pattern of conflict had not reached the right point to interject their own opinions.

"Frodo, would you rather continue until you fall from illness and have to be carried, or shall we treat you now?" Aragorn hated to make the statement, but it was the only persuasion he could think of.

Frodo merely pulled his hood over his face and folded into a tiny ball, purposefully ignoring the question and hoping this new strategy would work. For the past two days he had been secretly suffering from a sore throat, and instead of vanishing overnight as he had hoped, the sore throat had crept downward and developed a rough-sounding cough, hardly uncommon enough to fuss over. It was only a common cold, yet Sam and Aragorn seemed to fear for his life if he so much as stubbed a toe! They didn't know the inner turmoil he was silently enduring, nor the unceasing thoughts which seemed to pop into his head from oblivion to make his cheeks blush with shame, a rosy color often mistaken for a brewing fever.

They didn't understand. No one could. For how can one explain the torture of the mind, of an unseen foe? The Ring was only a trinket; the malice was an invisible cloud of evil, the center in which abode the enemy's Ring. This task was so incredibly impossible, so daunting! A thousand questions haunted his steps. Would melting the Ring truly destroy the lurking evil? He had already developed a terrible strategy should he fail and be left alive, but how could he end the inevitable suffering of his companions as well, if any remained?

He saw only two directions in which this Quest could lead: failure and certain death, or success preceding his death.

Death. An end to existence. A tiny puff, a flicker and he would go out, cease to be. If Frodo Baggins would no longer haunt the world within a few weeks, what was there to preserve? A miserable, tormented hobbit moving closer to the end with each southerly stride he took?

He was torn from his miserable musings by his hood being lifted from his face. Grim gray eyes peered into his solitude.

"Eat."

Watery soup was placed into his reluctant hands. He stared at the yellowish contents and blanched at the prospect, steel stomach hardening against any intrusion. He was not hungry. Why must they insist on pampering him? Why could they not allow him to dwindle silently away into nothing? Why must he die with pomp and suddenness, heroically completing the Quest in a great, grand explosion, a rush of fire and flame?

He sighed. It was to be. He could not be so selfish. He had signed himself away at the Council of Elrond, yet it was the only thing he could have done. From the beginning his life had been leading up to this point, this final task. And once it was completed, if it was accomplished, his purpose would be fulfilled. It was fate. It was to be.

He was the puppet of the Great, to be used and discarded. That was the way of heroes. Once their destiny fulfilled, no purpose, no after lingers for them to bask the quiet remainder of their days in. Musty essence of a bygone day. Colorless reminisce. Fate.

"Frodo..."

He sighed, and ate.

'Linger and fade.'

It was to be.

* * *

**End**


End file.
